This little poem is an interesting thing that I wrote a while back. It is essentially about the embrace of the vampires. The main character laments her lost life, and entrance into unlife as she stares at the painting that she did while living.

I had written a quasi-sequel to Silver-Eyes -- it took place in the same setting (though centuries later), and has a guest appearance by the ghost of Taydile Kett. Otherwise the two were not closely connected. It was called Child of the Old Hero, and this was a possible ending for it.

I stayed up 'till waaay past midnight one night to finish this thing. I tried to incorporate as many elements of fantasy as I could. I enjoy this one, and I am pretty satisfied with it. Narrative poems are hard, since the matter being processed is slightly less nebulous than some other kinds of poetry.

Hm. I didn't realize I only had one more chapter in the CWM series.
The assignment was that we had to write an 'analytical' piece, answering the question 'Is writing art?' (The class was called 'the art of writing', of course.)But I decided to continue with my muse theme, and wrote this instead. My teacher was so taken with my muse, that she didn't care. I got an A++ on my portfolio.
This is the ending.
...I have come to terms with my art. But are the consquences worth it?
This is The End.

She turned back to the dragon, whose eyes matched both her own and her grandson's, and with a final effort dragged herself up onto the dragon's back. She threw back her head, breathing in the sweet air.

Two dragons from forthcoming novel sequence are content, but bored. Having been bonded for 500 years, these mates-for-life are starting to experience some relationship doldrums. But then they have a little adventure together, while their children are being tutored by the clan elders . . .

This is actually the oldest of any of the other stories on this page. It's not my favorite although I do care the most for it, being one of my first completed stories. Enjoy it as I do.
'What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.'
--T.S. Eliot, The Four Quartets